The Legend of Peg Powler
(A Sewing Box Mystery)
Chapter 1: Friday, November 1, 1991, 1:51 am
Chapter 2: Saturday October 29, 2011, 11:37 am
Chapter 3: Sunday October 30, 2011, 10:30 am
Chapter 4, Monday, October 31, 2012, 8:01 am, Halloween
Chapter 13: Monday, October 31, 2011, 11:02 am
Chapter 17 - Monday, October 31, 2011, 12:43 pm
Chapter 23 - Monday, October 31, 2011, 3:42 pm
The rest of the afternoon flew by quickly, the conversation, rather on point. Missy had so many questions, many of which she didn’t get the chance to ask, for it seemed the ladies of the house had a very specific reason for inviting Missy and her aunt. Missy could also tell something was bothering Jeanette, most likely the fact that they were not headed back to Minneapolis by now, but, given the occasion, Missy pushed such thoughts aside. She was having a lovely time.
Missy felt as if she were in a joyous bubble. The room had taken on a lovely warmth, with the late afternoon sun filtering its way through the sheer curtains, filling the room with a euphoric glow, which struck Missy as odd, given that the windows faced the east, but she quickly dismissed the thought. She found the notion of having tea pleasingly old-fashioned and the three women sitting on the couch opposite her to be fascinating. She wondered if this was how men felt in the presence of her mother, whose sudden disappearance with a man, a virtual stranger, probably should have concerned her more, but she took comfort in the fact that St. Petersburgh was such a small community - surely no harm would come to her.
At first, the conversation centered on the general history of the town, much of which was known to Missy and Jeanette, thanks to their prior visit, when they were working on the Jack Arneson case and their recent, brief visit to the Oswig Museum. They again heard of the long trek undertaken to found the town and how their father, Gerald Oswig had forged alliances, working to establish the moral fiber of St. Petersburgh. They even alluded to the difficulties he faced dealing with the Catholic church and several of the other founding families. Missy wanted to press for more details, particularly when it came to the Washington/de Hartburns, but decided, since this was a first introduction, it would be rude to pry. Instead, she smiled, nodded her head, sipped her tea and stole the occasional bit of cake from the three-tiered bakery tray. And if she was eating more than her fair share, she wasn’t alone; Alma, true to her word, was eating her way through almost a dozen strawberry tartlets!
"I'm so very sorry there aren't some little sandwiches," said Agnes. "I'm afraid I've lost the ability to do even the simplest things in the kitchen."
"These aren't exactly simple," pointed out Jeanette, as she placed a perfectly iced pink petit four on her plate.
Agnes demurred, "Oh, those. Easy. But you see, that's the problem, all I seem to be able to make these days is sweets and pastries. I'm afraid my sisters have grown quite tired of eating them day after day."
"Speak for yourself," croaked Alma, who was leaning forward, taking the last of the strawberry tartlets. Having seized the desired prize, she looked at Missy, smiled and added, "At my age, I'll take all the sweet I can get."
When the topic circled back to the Oswig museum, Missy was, ultimately, greatly relieved. For, instead of being cross or disapproving about the incident with the curator, the sisters, the founders of the museum, were actually rather encouraging, noting once more that they had smoothed things over with Nathan.
“Nathan mentioned that you had brought something of interest to the museum and were asking questions about it. If you have it with you, I’d like to see it,” requested Mary.
Missy suddenly felt like a student who hadn’t prepared for show and tell. “I’m afraid my mother has it.”
“No, she doesn’t,” interjected Jeanette.
Missy looked to her aunt, who, after reaching under her blouse, produced the doll from her waistband. Jeanette smiled. “I found it tucked under the front seat when we were digging around for our stuff. That’ll teach Dorie! Try and hide something from me.”
In unison, the three sisters placed their cups of tea on the coffee table in front of them.
The kitchen witch was handed to Mary, whose face betrayed nothing as she closely examined the doll, paying particular attention to the blue and white fabric of the doll’s dress. She then handed it to Alma and then to Agnes. As the other two examined the doll, Mary asked, “Do you know what this is?”
“Just something my grandmother had in the kitchen. I always thought it was to help her cook or make sure things turned out well in the kitchen,” offered Missy.
“A poppet?” guessed Jeanette. “At least that’s what we were told at the museum.”
Mary looked to her sisters before continuing. It was clear that something passed between them, but Missy was clueless.
“Do you know what a poppet is?”
“Not really.”
Mary smiled warmly. “It represents a relationship and a belief system. When people come in contact with one another, especially during times of great turmoil, a bond is formed, a link that time and distance cannot erase.” She gently turned the doll over in her hands, smoothing it’s skirt, touching its hair. “The poppet is a tool of influence. Typically wishing well, though some intend harm. This? This was meant well, but… most likely not received well. Have you any idea of how your grandmother came into possession of it?” Both Missy and Jeanette shook their heads. “I see.” Mary’s eyes then landed squarely on Missy. Without an ounce of accusation or reprimand, Mary matter-of-factly stated, “And I’m to understand that you have in your possession a document which belongs to the hall of records, a birth certificate. May I see it?”
Missy blushed. “My mother...” was all she could manage, as she handed the document over to Mary, who unfolded it, looked at the information it offered and nodded her head. “Yes. This is it.” As with the doll, the paper was passed back and forth between the sisters.
Missy blundered forward, offering, “I’m sorry. My mother misunderstood. She…”
"And where is she? Your mother?" Agnes cheerfully asked?
"Oh. She..."
"She's getting a tour of the town from the CEO of B&T Baked Goods," said Jeanette, coming to Missy's rescue.
"That Tollefson man." hrmph'd Agnes, as she stuffed the last of the strawberry tartlets in her mouth.
Mary smiled. "We don't think much of the Tollefson's, at least not this latest generation. You had some trouble with the girl... what is her name Alma?"
"Kathleen," rasped Alma. "Poor thing."
Mary continued, "From what Arthur tells me, your mother, she's... quite captivating."
"That's a word for it," snickered Jeanette.
Ignoring this, Mary resumed, "That is to say, she had quite an effect on the man."
"She can be very charming," offered Missy. "Sometimes."
"Women, we are all blessed with gifts," beamed Agnes. "Men? They come into this world and must deal with what is, all the tangibles in life. So they spend their time dividing, categorizing, putting things into some type of order. They push and rut about. It's the most they can do. While women, if they are aware, they take their gifts and make the most of them. Some become masters doing so, while others flail about without fully understanding what is at they possess. And still others live their entire lives completely oblivious." Her eyes glowed as she spoke. Then she looked to her sisters. "Magpies. We call them magpies," she giggled. "Those who don’t value their gifts, they fill their time on earth with clutter and clatter, making so much noise, but so little sense."
"Like those women at Pearl's," cackled Alma.
Mary, taking a higher road, promptly brought the conversation to focus.
"Your mother? She seems to have enthralled our dear Arthur."
Missy felt her face redden. "Oh, that. Yes. Well, we're so sorry..."
Mary rose her right hand, signaling for Missy to stop. “No need for apologies, my dear. We understand." Understand? What? wondered Missy. But before she had time to form a question, holding the birth certificate aloft. Mary pressed on. "Have you any comprehension of the import of this document?” she asked.
Wordlessly, Missy and Jeanette, shook their heads, ‘no’.
Then, as if on cue, all three sisters rose up from the couch.
“Come with us,” beckoned Mary.
Missy and Jeanette, with a clatter, placed their cups and saucers on the coffee table and followed the women. As they moved down the hallway, with Alma walking in front of her, Missy couldn’t help but notice that the old woman seemed to be standing taller and moving without very much difficulty. Obviously Missy’s initial assessment of her frailty had been too hasty.
Missy and Jeanette followed the women past the dining room, to the opposite end of the hallway, where a set of double doors opened to a once grand foyer. To their right stood a pair of sweeping staircases, notably unused and in a state of disrepair. To their left,a pair of heavy doors leading to the outside of the house, swollen and sitting crooked in their frame, clearly they were inoperable. The overall condition of the house was appalling, yet, the three sisters moved through it seemingly oblivious to the decaying infrastructure surrounding them. Gliding through the dust and debris, they crossed the chamber to the opposite side where yet another set of double doors, of which there was no need to open, for one sat a kilter, off its hinges, led to the desired room.
And what a room! A very formal sitting room, appointed with furniture from the turn of the twentieth century. In stark contrast to the rest, this room seemed well taken care of, free of the dust and deterioration prevalent throughout the rest of the manor. Elaborate wall sconces which once held candles but had since been converted to electricity bathed the room in pools of comforting light. The room struck Missy as spacious, but heavily-decorated and cramped with furniture. Brooding, massive drapes clung to the windows, shutting out all natural light, with the overall effect being that of a room hushed and full of reverence. Above the wide, stone fireplace was the large painted portrait of a young woman, seated in the very room in which they now stood. Its style reflected a more recent era than the furnishings which kept it company. Missy thought the dress worn in the painting was similar in style to that which Agnes now wore. But it couldn’t be Agnes.
As if sensing the question, Mary, with one arm wrapped around her waist and her chin propped on the upturned knuckles of the other, volunteered. “This is our beloved Theresa, whose birth certificate we will now return to the hall of records. Isn’t she beautiful?” Not waiting for consent, the old woman added with a note of wistfulness, “She held such promise… once.” As if sensing a need for comfort, the other two sisters closed ranks on either side of Mary.
Missy felt Jeanette’s hand envelop her own, as the room took on a mournful tone. The five women stood and stared up at the portrait, as moments went by accompanied only by the click of a giant, ancient grandfather clock. In her mind, Missy tried to form a question which would not come off as impertinent. Who was Theresa to these women? How did she fit into the family? There had been no mention of husbands, and, if Missy recalled correctly, none of the sisters married. So, where did this Theresa fit into the picture? Just as she was about to ask, something behind her caught her attention.
In the doorway, appeared the chauffeur, cap in hand. “Ladies, if you will follow me back to the car. The time for tea has come to an end.”
Mystified, Jeanette and Missy looked to one another. Shouldn’t they thank their hosts? But when Missy looked at the three sisters, huddled together, still staring forlornly at the portrait of Theresa, she thought it best not to disturb them. Silently, Missy and Jeanette followed the man back through the great hall, down the hallway to the dining room and out through the kitchen door.
As they walked, Missy’s mind, again, raced with questions. Had they done something wrong? Well, yes, Missy, supposed, removing the birth certificate from the hall of records was very wrong, for it had apparently stirred something from the past for the Oswig sisters, of whom Missy’s lasting impression was the three of them standing, staring up at the portrait, the errant birth certificate still held in Mary’s hand.
As they retraced their steps, back to the car, through the remnants of the throttled garden, Missy felt something tingle in her head. She stopped dead, as it rippled through her body as she suddenly became hyper-aware of her surroundings. She wasn’t sure, and maybe it was because they were walking the opposite way, but things weren’t as she remembered them. It’s then that her focus fell upon the fountain. She walked toward it, as if enthralled. Now, it seemed, there wasn’t nearly as much moss or as many lichens covering its surface. She reached out, once more to touch it’s smooth stone surface and as she did, a small stream of water trickled down from the fountain’s still encrusted top. Missy gasped.
“Miss?”
It was the chauffeur. Missy attempted to gather her wits. “Have you… did you?” she mumbled. He looked at her uncomprehendingly, which only made Missy scramble harder for the necessary words. “Did you… work on this? Now?”
“Pardon, Miss?”
“The fountain. This fountain. Did you work on it while we were having tea?”
“No, Miss. I wouldn’t know how to go about fixing it. It hasn’t worked for centuries.”
“Missy!” barked Jeanette, who was standing near the car. “Come on,” her aunt pleaded.
Missy looked from Jeanette, to the chauffeur, and then to the fountain. “But it… it seems… different.”
The old man gave Missy an understanding smile. “Well, yes,” he said, looking the ancient fount up and down, “I suppose it does, Miss.” And with that he put on his chauffeur’s cap and made his way to the car.
Bewildered, Missy tore herself away from the trickling fountain and followed suit. As she was about to duck into car, awestruck, her eyes locked on the garden and the rear of the house. It wasn’t her imagination, things had changed - they were less shabby. The garden appeared tidier, somehow and parts of the house itself were in much better condition than she first remembered. She looked to the chauffeur, who stood, dutifully, holding the door for her. “Are there… more staff members? Workers? On the grounds?”
He chuckled. “Oh, no, Miss. Over the years, the sisters have had to let everyone go, one by one. I’m afraid I’m the only one left.”
“What about the gardener?”
“Gone, many years now.”
Disbelieving, Missy sank into the backseat of the vehicle, allowing the driver to close her door.
“That was quite something, huh?” crowed Jeanette, as the chauffeur pulled forward, toward the crumbling porte cochure. Missy placed an index finger to her lips, then gestured to the car’s driver. Jeanette gave a small nod of her head and relaxed into the seat. As the car made its way to the lengthy driveway, Missy turned to looked up at the manor through the back window.
Something happened here.
And something was happening, again.
She couldn’t put her finger on it, but she did know one thing…
This would not be the last time she would be visiting this house.
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1 comment:
*gasp*
Magic? Ancient ritual? Those three sisters are kinda creepy, no?
And the fountain????
XOXO
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